Page 55 of Innocent Bratva Hostage

Throughout the evening, I find my focus splintering. The event continues as planned—introductions, brief conversations, a toast or two—but my attention keeps drifting back to her. I watch the way she holds herself, the quiet strength in her movements, and the way her gaze sharpens when she catches someone staring too long.

She’s a force, even when she doesn’t realize it.

At one point, I notice a man—it’s my cousin, Mikhail—lingering nearby, his gaze fixed on her as she sips her drink. My hands clench into fists at my sides, the instinct to act immediate and overwhelming.

Hannah glances up, catching my eye. She tilts her head slightly, her lips curving into the faintest smirk, as if she knows exactly what I’m thinking.

“Relax,” she says softly, her voice carrying a note of amusement. “I can handle it.”

I grit my teeth but nod, forcing myself to step back, to let her manage this in her own way.

Still, the possessiveness lingers, coiling in my chest like a snake.

She’s mine. No amount of defiance or independence will change that.

By the time the event winds down, I’m more on edge than I was when it began. As we head back to the car, I glance at her again, catching the faint flush on her cheeks, the way her lips curve into something close to a smile.

“You handled yourself well tonight,” I say grudgingly as we slide into the back seat.

“Thanks,” she replies, her tone light but carrying a hint of satisfaction. “I think I’m getting the hang of this.”

I smirk, leaning back against the seat. “Don’t get too comfortable. This isn’t a game.”

Her eyes meet mine, a spark of fire still burning in them. “Neither am I,” she says quietly.

The car ride home is unbearable.

The tension between us hums like a live wire, crackling and sparking with every glance, every shift of her body in the seat beside me. Hannah sits with her back straight, her hands folded neatly in her lap, but I can see the way her fingers twitch against the fabric of her dress. She’s as affected by this as I am, no matter how much she tries to hide it.

Yet, I can’t bring myself to speak.

The night had been a trial of restraint, of biting back the urge to claim what’s mine every time another man dared to look at her for too long. My control had been tested in a hundred different ways, and I’d barely held on. Now, with her so close, her scent wrapping around me like a drug, my patience is hanging by a thread.

Her earlier words echo in my mind, sharp and unrelenting.

Neither am I.

She’s a challenge—a fire I can’t extinguish, no matter how hard I try. Maybe I don’t want to.

By the time the car pulls into the driveway, my resolve is in tatters. I step out, my movements stiff and deliberate as I wait for her to follow. She does, her heels clicking softly against the stone as we make our way inside.

The door closes behind us with a soft thud, the sound reverberating through the empty foyer. I should walk away, put distance between us before I do something I can’t take back.

I can’t.

“Hannah,” I say, my voice low and rough, the single word carrying the weight of everything I’m feeling.

She turns to face me, her brows drawing together in confusion. “What?”

That spark of fire in her gaze—defiant, unyielding—shatters the last of my restraint.

I step forward, closing the space between us in an instant. My hands find her waist, gripping her firmly as I pull her against me. Her breath catches, her eyes widening in surprise, but she doesn’t pull away.

“I can’t,” I murmur, my voice a strained growl as I pin her gently against the wall, caging her in with my body. “Not anymore.”

She swallows hard, her hands coming up to press against my chest. “Makar—”

Whatever she was about to say is lost as my lips crash down on hers. The kiss is rough, desperate, an outlet for the storm raging inside me. She stiffens for a heartbeat, and then she melts, her fingers curling into the fabric of my shirt as she kisses me back with just as much intensity.

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